


Subtle the Sum

by beautifullyheeled



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Ghosts, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Angelic Lore, Friends to Lovers, Head Injury, Latent Sensitive, M/M, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, Soul Bond
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-26
Updated: 2015-06-26
Packaged: 2018-04-06 06:13:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4211166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beautifullyheeled/pseuds/beautifullyheeled
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock didn’t remember why his eyes were gazing blurrily at four walls that weren’t his own. Hospital. Obvious. The odd ozone-less antiseptic-laced neutrality that currently accosted his nostrils told him that much; that, and the whiteness of the walls currently trying to blind his eyes. Might have been a pale arctic blue at one time... but he couldn’t be certain. The fabric that most liked to call cotton, that most certainly wasn’t was irritating his sensitive skin. The cleaning agents necessary to run a hospital were rarely kind to those with allergies of these sorts. It made him itch, deep below his dermal layers. Must have been on his back for a while then. </p>
<p>How did he get here?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Subtle the Sum

Sherlock didn’t remember why his eyes were gazing blurrily at four walls that weren’t his own. Hospital. Obvious. The odd ozone-less antiseptic-laced neutrality that currently accosted his nostrils told him that much; that, and the whiteness of the walls currently trying to blind his eyes. Might have been a pale arctic blue at one time... but he couldn’t be certain. The fabric that most liked to call cotton, that most certainly wasn’t was irritating his sensitive skin. The cleaning agents necessary to run a hospital were rarely kind to those with allergies of these sorts. It made him itch, deep below his dermal layers. Must have been on his back for a while then. 

How did he get here? 

He closed his eyes, as they weren’t giving him any better information than what he had just gathered, and tried to breathe. Ribs. Broken... possibly total of three; more than likely four. Other bones intact, but leg compromised muscularly in some capacity. Allowing his mind to sweep further he found that his thigh itched terribly, but when he went to lightly rub at it, he realised it was bandaged. Broken then. Reconstructed in some capacity. Revised opinion: Very Bad Accident. But the rest of his body was mostly in tact? Sherlock realised that his head felt ‘sensitive’, as if the follicles hadn’t been disturbed- oh. Head injury as well. Could explain the eye sight as well. He hoped not, it would be a terrible inconvenience to have to go have surgery just to correct the issue, if it were correctable. 

Parched he reached for the cup beside him on the roll-a-way and found the cup in a still warm state... not quite tepid, meaning that it hadn’t been in the room lon. Mostly drank. Depressions on the right side of the styrofoam from meticulously filed nails. Wide bed, so male. 

John.

John was somewhere close by then. Good. Relief flooded through him and filled him with a calm he didn’t know had been missing. Agitation is a good sign though, isn’t it? How long had he been hospitalised? Sherlock opened his eyes again and tried to focus, newpapers... two books. John’s iPad with keyboard-holder-thingie. Three charger tails taped to the small bedside table. A week? Less? It was hard to think and hard to see and cotton wool would serve him better. 

It was hard to concentrate on anyone thread of thought. The soft buzzing in his head, from either medication or concussion, made it difficult. The slight ring in his ear wasn’t doing him any favours either. Sherlock sighed, breathing in as far as he could before exhaling and tried listening to his surroundings. Whirs, buzzes, simple grey noise expected in an urban hospital. Voices. 

Voices. He turned his head towards the door and listened. 

John and... someone else? He couldn’t make out who though he assumed masculine so Lestrade or... well it might be feminine just very hushed so Molly. If it were Mycroft or Mrs. Hudson, they would be in the room talking amongst themselves. There was a reason he was alone. News then, possibly a doctor? But then why in the hall and not here by his bedside. If only he could _think_.

“John,” Sherlock tried to say his friends name and found his tongue rough and swallowed. 

“Hush now, sir. You’re recuperating and need rest to gather your strength back.” 

Standing by his bedside was a nurse; but the attire seemed off. Her blue sleeved frock, with white pinafore, seemed more fancy dress then the scrubs Sherlock was accustomed to. Perhaps he wasn’t at Bart’s at all, could he be so off that he was at an older privatised hospital? Had Mycroft had his way and actually instituted a secret portion of the NHS for care? It was preposterous. 

“Yes, surgery.” It really did hurt to speak. “How badly injured?”

“Oh, you’ll live.” Sherlock saw the red painted lips quirk up, warming the piercing blue eyes that assessed him. She had her brooch flipped upward, held by delicate fingers, even though she was ignoring it in favor of keeping his gaze; his wrist in her hand. “Pulse is within normal, sir. Now if only the same could be said for the others on the ward once they get a look at you.” 

“Things are off, with my vision. Haloing and slightly blurred?” Better to ignore the forwardness. “John, he-”

She tilted her head, the soft smile staying as if to comfort him. “I’m sure your friend is fine, no one here but us ducks.”

“Us ducks?” He closed his eyes and shook his head then hummed painfully. “Nurse you’re not making sense. Please, go retrieve my friend from the hall. I wish to speak to him.”

“Sorry, can’t. Doctors are doctors and they are both quite worried over you, especially your _friend._ Oh, don’t worry though, I won’t say a word. There are all sorts you meet in my line, it’s true.” 

She moved confidently about the room, settling on the chair closest to the corner and picked up what looked to be some wool yarn and knitting that had been stopped mid-progress. Sherlock couldn’t help but to try and focus his eyes, but it was making his head hurt so much more that he finally closed his eyes and let his neck relax so his head could be nestled against the pillow once again. He’d be able to figure it all out once he woke up properly soon enough.

The next time he regained awareness, John was with him. 

His hand was warmed by John’s. This was new. The tangle of fingers was nice. Comforting. It took a minute to swallow and get his throat working before Sherlock made a small noise. 

“Sherlock?” John’s voice was calm, but just above a whisper. 

Could be due to the darkened setting of his room, the intimacy of the of the night always seemed to change people. Could be that John didn’t want to wake him, worried he might lose the ability to continue the gesture of their tangled fingers. Sherlock just pressed into that touch and reaffirmed the place of his fingers by squeezing them more tightly together before relaxing again.

“John. I-”

“Oh, thank god.” The exhale and catch of breath was loud in the quiet room. “I was so worried, the chances of you... I’m glad you’re back. All the way.”

“Back?” He huffed what was supposed to be a laugh. “Where could I have gone? That nurse was in here watching over me... as if I could walk in my current situation?”

John tilted his head, his tongue darting over his lips. “Nurse?”

“Yes, John... the one with the dress and sleeves. Red lipstick and knitting.” 

“Um, Sherlock, that... well it must have been a dream? You’ve been unconscious. For a bit.” 

The roughened fingers once against squeezed against his as if reaffirming that Sherlock was tangible. It struck him somewhere deep that John would so clearly be certain about such a thing when he, himself, knew there had indeed been a nurse watching over him before he had dozed off. 

“She was here taking vitals while you were out in the hall with my surgeon, then proceeded to make herself at home with _knitting_ in that far chair.”

“Knitting?!” The disbelief in John’s voice was enough to make his own eyebrows raise. 

“And something about ducks-”

“Sherlock, it wasn’t real. I’m sorry.”

Sherlock sighed and looked around the room for a trace of the young woman that had most certainly been there. It was as it should have been really, no outward sign in the sterile room. Maybe just a hint of her perfume, Evening in Paris, _quite racy for day wear_ , lingered in the room. Not enough to convince John of anything. Highly improbable to sway him. Maybe switching topics would be appropriate. 

He looked back up to meet John’s eyes. “My vision is still, not quite right.” 

“Oh?” This brough John back into his ‘listening doctor’ mode. It made him smile just a little to watch the minute changes that overcame his doctor. How his thumb switched close to his pulse, his body leaned in towards the bed. Receptive again. “And what is the issue? Might need another scan, which I am sure they have scheduled-”

“Slight blurring, haloing. Sometimes.” He could see the gentle emanation of colour around John. “You look as if your edges have been dipped in sunlight or honey.”

John blinked twice, then again before answering in his ‘very careful’ voice. “Yea, let’s have a scan then.”

“Alright, John.” Sherlock yawned then. 

“Tired still it seems. Um, yeah that’s fine... morphine most likely. I’ll stay with you?” His free hand skated up to Sherlock’s curls that were loose and gingerly brushed at them watching his fingers. “I’m just. I’m glad you are back. Here. With us, yeah?”

“I’m fine.”

“Sure you are. I’ll go see about that scan, okay?” A soft snore was Sherlock’s only response as he slipped once more into the morphine’s loving grasp.

The days there seemed dull and hazy until he backed himself off of the morphine; not as if he had been allowed that much daily to begin with. The nights were the worst. No John... well not often. The one bright spot was he would be home soon with physio to look forward too. John had said he would help here as well, work with him at his appointments even. They hadn’t discussed how he’d wake with their hands intertwined, or how he’d allow John to fuss with him; the gentle, sure hands were welcome. When it got into the deep night, he would try to sleep, though he generally only managed to nap. Nurses would come and go. Sherlock hadn’t seen that nurse again over the last few days and was beginning to wonder if it was a figment of his mind after all.

The tray clicking on his roll-away woke him out of the light doze he had fallen into. “Not eating much.”

“Not a figment then.” Was his answer. 

It was the same nurse, dressed as before. With his vision mostly back to normal he could see that she was indeed young _mid-twenties_ , what one could consider pretty even though her eyes and the set of her mouth told of hardships she had seen. The clothing though, the dress with _short puff sleeves_ and _pinafore_ , was most certainly not modern hospital attire. Now that Sherlock looked her over he realised that she reminded him of some something or the other... it was just there. And he could not _see_ , just as had been the issue with Ms. Adler at their first meeting. 

“No,” She smiled with a small laugh. “I’m no figment. Real and all that. Name’s Geraldine, but no one uses it.” Her curled hair bounced a bit at the negating shake of her head. “So it’s either Nurse Taylor or Gerti for you.”

Sherlock smiled mischievously to himself. “Date tonight before your shift?” 

“Why do you say that?” Gerti’s eyes twinkled. “Aren’t really allowed to on shift-nights. You should know this. Don’t you get on with one of the girls from the Morgue? Oh, not in that way, I know you only have eyes for your doctor...”

“Get on... John?” This made him want to shift up so that he was more sitting and pin her with his gaze until she either withered like Molly _unlikely_ or told him exactly what she meant. Well, he knew what she meant, didn’t he, but that was not for public knowledge. It was... too new. “Her name is Molly. The one in the morgue; do you two... chat?”

“I’ve seen her occasionally.”

So a non-answer and more smiling as if this nurse had got all of the cream and possibly scones as well.

“You are ridiculous.”

“No, sir, I am never that.” Gerti placed her hand against the blanket close to his. “I am forthright and quite serious minded, thank you very much... now you have questions.”

It rankled Sherlock that Geraldine seemed to have the upperhand. Utterly ridiculous. Who was this girl? She was most certainly a nurse, he could see that much, but she looked completely at odds with the here and now. Had that sense about her that John did, as if she had seen too much but had accepted it. Was it an impossibility that she had been to war? Most certainly. 

“You’re an... a nurse, fairly young too. The fancy dress that you have though, is very out of sorts. You should be in current hospital ‘scrub’ attire, yet here you are in a dress. French design. Hair curled, face immaculate, and just a touch of that racy perfume left over from your evening date. You’ve mentioned Molly, though I have not seen you here here. You also have a keen enough eye to notice that John and I have more than a working relationship.”

“More like he makes eyes at you, feathers your hair when he thinks no one is paying attention... and you?”

“Me?”

“Yes, you act as if he is your sun.” She said it with such conviction.

Sherlock could not refute it; as much as it rankled him, Geraldine was correct. “That transparent are we?”

“No, not really,” She leaned closer to him and dropped her voice. “But I’ve seen enough lads come home to know some friendships... blossom... into more.”

“Come... home?” He tilted his head and stared at her. “Home from where?”

Now it was Geraldine’s chance to raise her eyebrow at him. “Why the war, of course.”

“But there is no... well I suppose there is... but you...”

“Sir? Perhaps you should get some rest? Your doctor will be here after a while.”

“Geraldine, who are you?”

She stood and walked towards the chair, this time with a small pocketbook; possibly psalms. 

“Ask Molly. You really should give her more credit verbally than you do, sir.”

Sherlock made an agreeable noise. “She has grown quite a lot... respectable even?” He mused, the last bit more to himself than to Geraldine. “I’ve always know she could be more then average.”

“Who could be, Sherlock?”

At the sound of John’s voice, he rolled his head towards it. “Molly of course.”

“Ah, of course. Right. Well,” He smiled tightly. “It’s time to get you home.”

Sherlock sat up more as John raised the head of the hospital bed and then lowered the whole towards the floor; the mechanics whirred loudly in the otherwise quiet private room. It stopped just before Sherlock’s feet hit the cool lino. John had laid out a track suit and undergarments. The material felt soft under his fingers. He looked over John’s shoulder to the corner that the nurse occupied. She must have slipped out quietly just before John came in and he had dozed. 

“Well, this is going to be... fun.” He frowned heavily figuring out how to dress himself.

John’s hand came to rest on his. “I’ll help you, you know.”

Thoughts occurred to him then that had not; oh, how the morphine had dulled him. Sherlock was glad to be off it to a degree but a significant part was still wanting it for the healing process, the other craving it. He’d have John at home, monitoring his dosages and keeping him in tea so he’d have some comfort that way as well. Getting dressed. Using the loo. On crutches... 

“I could always take Mycroft up on his offer-”

“Like hell you will.” John’s voice was soft, but fully determined.

Sherlock quieted and just nodded. 

“Let’s start with my pants.” This was not how he had envisioned John seeing his cock for the first time. Anyone for that matter. The thing was practically unimpressive at this point; just floppy extra skin and bits to get caught on things as the two grown men maneuvered and settled (the loose) boxers. He was slightly damp with sweat just from that small exertion and wanted to practically curse a blue streak as only John’s American friends could. “Ridiculous.”

He could feel his testicles settling not quite right and a dull ache start up in his thigh and he moaned in frustration.

“Sherlock, look, this is going to be hell. All of it.” John placed his hand once again over Sherlock’s. “Shoulder remember. I know, alright. Come on, there’s a lad.” He offered Sherlock the opening of a soft vest. “See, I’ve got you.”

“Yes, yes, fine.” His voice was low; resigned. John threaded his feet through the legs of the tracksuit then unsnapped the hidden side snaps to mid thigh. 

“No these are not stripper attire. Yes, they are posh, so let’s get himself all tucked in and arse covered, shall we.” The tease was pushing Sherlock to smile in spite of his mood. “Good, now roll to your left so I can... there!”

“Bravo, John. You’ve managed to help a grown man fix his togs.”

“Shut it you or I’m taking pictures.”

They made it to the corridor before Sherlock realised there might be something off. Not in a very glaring way, but enough to brush at the edges of his perception. A patient seemingly waiting in to corridor to their right that just watched him be wheeled past without breaking his gaze, an almost amazed look on the man’s face. A woman that was at a nursing station that looked emaciated almost. Grey. Odd. Out of place. His observations had to be off. The morphine perhaps or the (something) they gave him to help with transport home as his body still railed against movement. He was reassured when he couldn’t figure what John had had to eat or if he indeed had finished reading his latest pulp fiction in the last forty-eight hours. 

He was fine. Mentally intact. Just mentally drained due to his body needing so much diverted to heal. Soon enough, he’d be back to full running speed and the oddness would pass.


End file.
